


this opportunity of ours

by perpetualguilt



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Sadness, this is the writing equivalent of a lone chicken nugget in your mcdonalds box
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 10:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12107061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetualguilt/pseuds/perpetualguilt
Summary: a snippet of an abandoned fic idea. i thought this particular part worked fine as a standalone bit, so im posting it because why not-laurens and hamilton connect.almost.





	this opportunity of ours

“Now, you listen well, Mr. Laurens,” Hamilton huffed, raising an accusatory index finger to prod Laurens in the cheek. And he would have sworn upon the cross that he meant to withdraw it immediately- he intended to, truly. But the moment he made contact, he ignited with a prolific itch to curl his knuckle flat and brush it down along Laurens’ jawline. So he did, not sparing a cautious thought. Every muscle in Laurens’ body stiffened in response as he and Hamilton matched their astonished expressions. Laurens would have sworn upon the fate of his very soul that he meant to withdraw immediately, to laugh it off and feign ignorance and allow Hamilton this pardon from the situation. He intended to, truly. But he did not.

“...I so happen to know... on excellent authority, I should add...” 

Hamilton dared himself to swipe an experimental thumb across Laurens’ lips, idly coaxing them apart, and his mind hence abandoned all further conversation. Not expecting this, Laurens tried to say Hamilton’s name or really anything at all to pause this course of action, but he could only manage the first syllable before it died at conception, a noise better resembling some throaty, strangled hitch. In direct contrast to Laurens’ intention, the noise seemed to give Hamilton the final confidence he needed to lean in closer, both their hearts racing the line between overstimulation and failing outright. Hamilton lifted his free hand to grasp at the crook of Laurens’ neck, his palm hot from having been clenched within an anxious fist. Both of them being complicit in this lurid moment, their respective feelings could only intensify in the moment that followed, when Hamilton’s aggravatingly restrained advance finally procured its reward.

The first thing Laurens involuntarily took note of was the alien coarseness of facial hair upon his skin. Coarse, but not overly rough. Alien, but - though he shoved the thought out of his mind the second it formed - not entirely unpleasant. Desperate not to press himself into the touch, Laurens staggered backward; he hardly made it half a step before he felt the edge of Hamilton’s dresser digging into his lower back, surprising him into opening his mouth further. One of his hands flew behind him to brace himself against the offending furniture, and the other, in some godless instinctive will most _certainly_ independent of his own, gripped tightly at Hamilton’s waist.

It met an urgent and emboldened reception. Hamilton shut his eyes and hummed ever so faintly, and the hand on Laurens’ chin slid down to clutch greedily at the lapel of his coat. Insistent though Laurens’ own eyes were to follow Hamilton’s example, Laurens implored that they remain open. He needed to feel in control of _something._ Still, his eyes settled for half-lidded and heavy and his brows furrowed with heedful sensitivity to every area of contact between Hamilton and himself. The hand planted on Laurens’ neck endeavored to press their faces together beyond any pretense of a chaste enterprise.

John Laurens considered himself to be quite faithful in his observances and devotion to God. Yes, perhaps he wasn’t the consummate model of Protestantism, but he nevertheless made an earnest effort. He conferred with God often, attended church when he could, studied the Bible any time he felt stuck in life, and trusted that these practices would guide him along the correct path. But here and now, listening to Hamilton’s panting become increasingly vocal, sensing Hamilton’s roaming hand dip underneath his coat to shove it open intemperately, Laurens could no longer see the correct path forward. He couldn’t assure himself of God’s approval. He couldn’t allow himself to relax into such imprudent behavior, unordained, lost.

So he regained his good sense just long enough to tear away from Hamilton and lurch past him, towards the exit. “We can’t,” tumbled from his debauched lips too easily.

“Wh- I- Laurens?”

Hamilton’s impassioned haze plummeted with the temperature in the space Laurens had declined to occupy. He whipped around and seized Laurens’ arm to stall him, distress carved into the lines of his face.

“Wait-”

“Stop! _Damn_ it all, Hamilton, damn _this!”_ Laurens hissed as he pulled away again, knowing that his inflection carried far more vitriol than he’d genuinely intended, and cursing himself for how Hamilton recoiled. Still... still.

 _“No one_ can know of this.”

But of course Hamilton was already starkly aware of that reality. Laurens steadied his breathing and continued to walk out, not foolish enough to glance back or stop as he said:

“I will pray for the two of us.”

Then, Hamilton was alone. He simply stood rooted to the spot for an indeterminable length of time, an awful nausea settling in the pit of his stomach, uncertainty straining the muscle of his jaw. His hands trembled.


End file.
